


A Gift that Gives

by Sportakissmealready (fanfictionfanatic42)



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Robbie wears a crop top because I'm the author so I make the rules, pretty self-indulgent not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 09:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictionfanatic42/pseuds/Sportakissmealready
Summary: Inspiration tends to strike like lightning for Robbie: in sudden bursts and when least expected. Well, at least he's got his sewing machine.(In which Robbie takes his boyfriend's wardrobe issues into his own hands during an early morning, sleep-deprived wave of creativity; fluff ensues.)(Takes place after rikkiismygender's story "Sportacus' New Roommate" but could be read on its own.)





	A Gift that Gives

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sportacus's New Roommate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646439) by [rikkiismygender](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkiismygender/pseuds/rikkiismygender). 



> Hey! Thanks for clicking on this trash lol. To be quite honest, this is the first fic that I've posted in years, so I would really appreciate any constructive criticism that you can offer!  
> As stated in the summary, this was inspired by rikkiismygender's story "Sportacus' New Roommate"; you should read it if you haven't already! If you haven't yet, you can probably read this and still understand everything that happens. It also doesn't spoil anything from their story, I don't think. Really, though, go read that one it's good!  
> Thank you again for reading, and if you get the chance, please let me know what I can do to improve!  
> Thanks!

'You can do it!' read the light blue words stickered to the small space above the door frame. Robbie rolls his eyes at the non-sentient decoration, harrumphing silently in spite. He'll see about that.

A pair of heeled boots makes diluted taps against the carpeted hallway floors as Robbie struts through the dorm, a purple silk scarf flying like a kite string behind him. It's deep into the night and Robbie is wide awake, slaying in a crop top, shorts, and brown leather boots that nearly come up to his knees.

Of course, his makeup is done, though it's nothing special; simply his go-to look of purple eye shadow and winged liner, with a plum matte lipstick to tie it all together.

Despite what he would consider simplicity, Robbie's absolutely killing it tonight, and a distant part of him is disappointed that his only audience is the moon.

A more present part of him draws a fierce smirk across his face as he makes his way confidently across campus. Who needs company when standing on top of the world?

Though he looks fabulous, he does feel a bit of regret for not bringing a jacket with him; it's Autumn, and the small silk scarf hardly does much to keep his arms and legs warm against the chilly night air. And he can only imagine what Sport would say in regard to Robbie's disregard for himself.

"Robbie," he would likely say, "you need to take better care of yourself."

While the words themselves wouldn't have much weight, Sport would probably be looking at him with those big, puppy dog eyes, face etched with concern. It's the disappointment in his tone that would make Robbie feel the worst.

No matter. Robbie flicks the scarf over his shoulder. He has already arrived at his destination.

Freshly-painted nails grab hold of his student key-card and hold it to the scanner. A small beep and the light turning green are all Robbie needs to take in before he flings the door to the studio open, hearing it automatically lock behind him as the door shuts him into silence.

He flicks the light switch and blinks a few times at the bright lights that fill the room, illuminating colorful canvases and clay creations of varying sizes. A silk scarf floats past all of this, settling against Robbie's back as he stops before a newly-flung open cabinet containing a potpourri of fabric. His collection is constantly growing, but he knows already the exact fabrics that he is looking for and is simply debating how much fabric he will actually need for the project.

He shrugs, picking out four rolls of fabric—a white, a black, a gray, and a light blue: all colors that his...boyfriend...seems to be fond of—and deciding to just wing it and see how it goes. This project is hardly the fruit of meticulous planning, though Robbie will admit that he has thought about the issue before now. It glares at him every morning, after all, and whenever else he needs to freshen up his outfit.

The closet shared between him and Sport can hardly be considered empty, with nearly two-thirds of the space filled with Robbie's wardrobe alone. But that's exactly what Robbie considers to be the issue: his side of the closet is filled with outfits for any occasion or season, while Sport's is bare. It's as though Sport doesn't even care about how he looks.

Although that certainly is the case, Robbie does care. What kind of a...boyfriend...would he be if he let Sport prance around campus every day in the same three outfits? A horrible one, and Robbie would never forgive himself.

And so he finds himself, now around three in the morning, probably, immersed in the cutting of fabrics. He hardly slows and doesn't even bother checking over his work; he's spent the majority of his life in front of a sewing machine and has no trouble honing his skill by eye, even while in a manic, sleep-deprived state.

The steady, near-hypnotic flick of the needle entrances him in a state of unbreaking concentration, and he allows his mind to slip away, trusting his hands to carry him through the familiar motions. It's only in cutting that he must remind himself who these outfits are for, in order to remember to size accordingly.

It isn't until the presiding professor enters the studio at 7:30 that Robbie looks down at his work, noting that among shirts and pants, he also is mostly through with a hat. 

Once he's finished, the professor practically shoos him from the studio, taking one look at his dark eye circles and telling him to get some rest. She's already stuffing the excess fabric back into the cabinets, and Robbie nods, grateful partially for the implied consent to skip her class but mostly for her concern for his personal well-being.

Being cared for by her gives him a warm feeling in his heart that he writes off as the result of too many ounces of coffee consumed within the last forty-eight hours.

He gathers the finished clothing into his arms and stumbles into the morning sun. He pulls his crop top down as he walks back to his dorm, heels clicking and undoubtedly turning heads, though his actions are the result of autopilot, and his memories of the night will be but a blur.

When he arrives at his dorm room, Sport is, unsurprisingly, no longer in bed. He's probably at the gym for his typical morning workout. Robbie cringes at the mere thought of waking up so early to do something as awful as exercise.

He kicks off his boots the moment he walks through the door, nearly falling but managing to catch his balance against the frame. He doesn't bother hanging up his creations and simply throws them on top of the other clothes hanging up in the closet. Collapsing into bed, his eyes finally slip satisfyingly shut and thankfully stay that way until early afternoon.

* * *

 

He juggles two clear Tupperware containers between his hands, attempting to balance and keep them from falling to the concrete beneath him. He had forgotten for a moment that he was holding them and had nearly slammed them into the ground in an impulsive cartwheel. Thankfully, he managed to stop himself at the last moment, saving their reusable containers and their food and drawing amused smirks from a few bystanders.

Sport flashes his classmates a goofy grin when he regains his balance, continuing on his way with a simple wave over his shoulder. He keeps a steady pace for the rest of the jog to his dorm, making sure this time to keep at least one foot on the ground.

He slows to a walk and then to a tiptoe as he nears his and Robbie's room and unlocks the door as silently as possible, in case his boyfriend is sleeping. When Sport woke up that morning, he was surprised and a little concerned to see Robbie's bed empty and favorite pair of boots missing.

Though a small part of him giddily hoped that his boyfriend had decided to go on an early morning walk, the more rational part of him was doubtful of that being the case; Robbie is a talented man with many interests, but after getting to know him over the past few months, Sport can admit that exercise does not seem to be among them.

But if not a walk around campus, then where did Robbie go? Sport already has Robbie's schedule memorized at this point, so he knows that Robbie didn't have an early morning class today. What class would meet so early in the morning, anyways?

He shakes his head quickly, as though the physical motion can blow away his curiosity like a puff of smoke. Robbie deserves space, not for his life to be pried into by the greedy hands of a clingy, hyperactive boyfriend.

Sport opens the door slowly, wincing a bit when it creaks, then closes it quickly in order to keep the light out. Comfortingly, Robbie is back in the dorm, currently asleep on his bed.

Sport raises an eyebrow slightly at the other man's attire (a crop top and shorts really doesn't seem like an outfit for chilly weather) but shrugs. What does Sport know about fashion?

Besides, he can't say that the view of Robbie's exposed midriff isn't welcome. And the already-short shorts are pulled up a bit more than they should be, revealing pearl-white thighs and rose-pink stretch marks that match the current shade of Sport's cheeks.

He berates himself slightly for being weird, though his eyes linger for a moment more before he turns away. He turns the television back onto the show about unconventional homes—which he and Robbie have begun referring to as 'Bizarre Bungalows'—and turns the volume down until even he can barely hear it. He is just so grateful that Robbie is finally getting some rest and doesn't want to be the one to wake him up.

Sport typically sleeps through the night and is left to guess how many hours Robbie got in the morning; sometimes, however, Sport is pulled from his rest to find Robbie making tea or on his laptop in the middle of the night. Those nights are when Sport feels the most powerless. He can try, but what usually works for him tends not to work for Robbie. Insomnia is a new concept to Sport, and while he finds that he can't do much about it, he can at least attempt to help Robbie sleep for as long as he can.

Sport sets Robbie's food container on his desk and takes his own with him, getting comfortable on the floor in the middle of the room. He alternates between taking bites of his salad and doing one-armed pushups, all the while focused on the pointless, yet highly-addictive, show he put on.

The 'bizarre bungalow' currently on the screen is an extravagant, overly-modified treehouse. Sport watches with fascination as the homeowner ascends the ladder to the house that rests probably one-hundred feet in the air. Robbie wakes with a groan and draws Sport's attention away from the show before he is able to ponder the intrigue of the home.

Sport turns his head towards Robbie, a smile growing on his face. "Good morning, sleepyhead," he says softly, though Robbie still groans in response.

"Well, there's no reason to shout," he says, to which Sport giggles.

As Robbie sits up and stretches his arms above him, Sport walks to Robbie's desk, grabbing the container that he put on it and only wincing slightly at the pops coming from Robbie's joints. Though he has grown used to the sound of cracking joints that seems to accompany Robbie's every move, he can't help but worry for Robbie's health. Maybe if he could talk Robbie into joining him on his evening walks more often...

"I brought you some lunch, if you want it."

"Oh, I want it," Robbie says then lurches to his feet. His vision blacks out for a moment and he sways to the side like a tree branch in the wind. Sport's arm reaches out instinctively to catch him in case Robbie falls, but the man retains his balance.

Sport hands him his food and leads him to a spot on the floor in front of the television. He is about to sit down himself when his eyes light up with an idea.

"Robbie, do you want some tea?" he asks, and Robbie looks up at him.

He hums for a moment before responding, "If you wouldn't mind?"

Sport leans down and kisses Robbie's temple.

"Of course I don't mind," he says softly against Robbie's ear before straightening, fingers absently carding through Robbie's hair on the way up. He grins when he sees a blush tinting Robbie's cheeks pale pink and saves the image in his head before he turns away to set to preparing their tea.

Sport stands by the electric kettle as it heats, watching Robbie fondly as he begins eating the lunch Sport brought back. Looking through the dwindling tea selection, Sport sets a mental reminder to buy more the next time he's nearby the store. He settles on herbal tea for himself and raspberry for Robbie, setting the tea bags into the mugs of hot water to steep.

He walks back to Robbie—yes, walks, not runs; he hasn't made the mistake of running with hot liquids in hand since he was a boy!—and hands a mug to him. Robbie accepts it gratefully, breathing in the steam with a contented sigh.

"Thank you for the food," he says–softly, since his brain is still waking up.

"Do you like it?"

"Mmm, I do."

The two eat in silence for a few minutes, mindlessly watching the show.

Save for a couple of chuckles and nudges while watching, the first thing to break the still is Sport.

"How did you sleep last night?" he asks, though he already suspects the answer.

"I slept alright...once I was able to fall asleep, that is. You know how I am."

Sport hums sympathetically, nodding in response. "You weren't here when I woke up this morning," he mentions, an unvoiced question in his tone, though he won't pry if Robbie won't tell him where he was.

Robbie considers for a moment. "I wasn't, was I?" An index finger meets his chin and his head tilts. The night before is a blur to him—unsurprising, considering how out of it he truly was.

Let's see... He remembers having dinner with Sport and...their...friends yesterday evening in the Café; he remembers coming back and attempting sleep, ultimately failing, then drinking more than a small amount of coffee. He remembers playing around with outfit choices and testing out some makeup techniques...

Finally, his eyes light up, and the finger that had once made its place on the tip of his chin flies up into the air.

"That's right!" he practically shouts in excitement.

Sport gives shoots an equally strange and fond look, staying in is place on the ground when his boyfriend jumps up and moves across the room with a bounce in his step. Sport ponders for a moment whether the reason Robbie never has any energy might be because he spends it all in one go in moments like this.

Once at the closet, Robbie turns and gives Sport a stern look.

"Cover your eyes," he tells him. "Or look away or something."

Sport's smile grows wider as his fingers come over his eyes. "They're covered, Robbie!" he calls, though he knows Robbie could see him do so.

"No peeking!" Robbie commands, turning back to the closet. He knows that Sport wouldn't peek in the first place, but the assurance Sport calls back is a comfort that Robbie needs at the moment.

He gathers the clothes one-by-one, folding them all neatly. He notes with each one that while the craftsmanship could perhaps be better, the clothing is acceptable and definitely an improvement to Sport's wardrobe. To him, anyway.

With a quick nod to himself, he grabs the stack of clothes and makes his way back to Sport, who has begun performing sit-ups in his place on the ground, one hand still dutifully covering his eyes. Robbie rolls his eyes but admittedly watches for a few moments because _damnit, he's hot._

Though his brain, trained to quash these kinds of thoughts at the first sign of them, attempts to freeze his insides with a cold dread, Robbie forces in a deep breath and remembers what he and Sport talked about all those late nights when he'd wake up to one of Robbie's panic attacks. _What they have is good. They're love is pure and good and nothing can ever change that._

He nods again to himself, just a small flick of the head, then steps forward, dropping the clothes unceremoniously onto Sport's stomach mid-sit-up.

Sport grins and pauses where he is, holding a position that Robbie thinks seems wholly uncomfortable. Of course, knowing Sport, he probably hardly even notices a strain in his core.

"I'm allowed to open my eyes now, right?" he asks. Robbie snorts.

"Yes," he says dully, though humor shines through in his tone, "you may open your eyes now."

Sport's hand comes down from his eyes, and he looks down at what was dropped onto his torso. He pulls himself into a cross-legged position and sets what clearly is a stack of cloth in front of him. He makes brief eye contact with Robbie who gestures him on.

Sport carefully picks up the—shirt, it's a shirt—off the top of the pile, his mouth opened up into an awed 'oh'. His fingers run over the striped design on the arms of the sleeves, and he looks between the rest of the clothes and Robbie. Robbie doesn't make eye contact, instead looking over the clothes Sport is holding, too.

Truthfully, Robbie is inspecting his own work, picking it apart and searching for imperfections in the stitching.

Sport continues picking up and looking at the clothes, heart filling with love because all he can think is that this is a _gift._

And not just a gift, but the first gift that Robbie has given him. The love that Sport feels for him is nearly overwhelming.

"It's not much, but hopefully it'll be an improvement in terms of your current options," Robbie says, eyes currently averted, fixated on a crack in the wall at the other side of the room. "Sorry if it sucks... You don't have to wear any of it. I just thought—"

"No, Robbie, they're perfect!" Sport cuts in, an honest grin on his face. "I really appreciate the gift."

Sport sets down the hat currently in his hands and, with an energy that contrasts the delicate care he had with the clothes, jumps to his feet, enveloping Robbie in a tight hug.

Robbie returns the embrace after a moment, resting his chin on Sport's head. His blush is deep and burning from the surprise hug and the compliments over the gift.

"Well, I wouldn't say perfect," he murmurs, "but I suppose it could have been worse. Some of the stitching might be messed up; I didn't really have time to check anything over today..."

The air is still for a few moments, soaking in Robbie's words. Then Sport pushes away slightly, head whipping back to the clothes stacked on the floor.

"Wait," he says, eyes wide in realization, "does that mean...did you make all of this?"

Robbie pauses, face taking on a bewildered look. "Yes? Wasn't that obvious?"

"I just assumed you bought it!"

"Sport, no offense, but you and I both know I am too poor to spend actual money on you."

Sport laughs and pulls Robbie back into the hug, squeezing even tighter than before.

Eventually, Sport's head tilts up. His eyes shine, but his lips upturn in a smile that cries out the love in his heart.

"You are so wonderful," he tells Robbie, then asks, "Can I kiss you?"

Robbie nods. "Yes," he breathes, and the two come together.

All of their doubts vanish, at least for the moment, and suddenly everything is perfect.

"Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> Not too happy with the ending, but I forgot what the original ending I had in mind was. Oops! Thank you again for reading; it means a lot to me :D


End file.
